XII

IN THE HANDS OF HIS FRIENDS

There was a painting at the World's Fair at Chicago named "The Reply,"
in which the lines of two contending armies were distinctly outlined.
One of these armies had demanded the surrender of the other. The reply
was being written by a little fellow, surrounded by grim veterans
of war. He was not even a soldier. But in this little fellow's
countenance shone a supreme contempt for the enemy's demand. His
patriotism beamed out as plainly as did that of the officer dictating
to him. Physically he was debarred from being a soldier; still there
was a place where he could be useful.

So with Little Jack Martin. He was a cripple and could not ride, but
he could cook. If the way to rule men is through the stomach, Jack
was a general who never knew defeat. The "J+H" camp, where he presided
over the kitchen, was noted for good living. Jack's domestic tastes
followed him wherever he went, so that he surrounded himself at this
camp with chickens, and a few cows for milk. During the spring months,
when the boys were away on the various round-ups, he planted and
raised a fine garden. Men returning from a hard month's work would
brace themselves against fried chicken, eggs, milk, and fresh
vegetables. After drinking alkali water for a month and living out of
tin cans, who wouldn't love Jack? In addition to his garden, he always
raised a fine patch of watermelons. This camp was an oasis in the
desert. Every man was Jack's friend, and an enemy was an unknown
personage. The peculiarity about him, aside from his deformity, was
his ability to act so much better than he could talk. In fact he could
barely express his simplest wants in words.

Cripples are usually cross, irritable, and unpleasant companions. Jack
was the reverse. His best qualities shone their brightest when there
were a dozen men around to cook for. When they ate heartily he felt he
was useful. If a boy was sick, Jack could make a broth, or fix a cup
of beef tea like a mother or sister. When he went out with the wagon
during beef-shipping season, a pot of coffee simmered over the fire
all night for the boys on night herd. Men going or returning on guard
liked to eat. The bread and meat left over from the meals of the
day were always left convenient for the boys. It was the many little
things that he thought of which made him such a general favorite with
every one.

Little Jack was middle-aged when the proclamation of the President
opening the original Oklahoma was issued. This land was to be thrown
open in April. It was not a cow-country then, though it had been once.
There was a warning in this that the Strip would be next. The dominion
of the cowman was giving way to the homesteader. One day Jack found
opportunity to take Miller, our foreman, into his confidence. They
had been together five or six years. Jack had coveted a spot in the
section which was to be thrown open, and he asked the foreman to help
him get it. He had been all over the country when it was part of the
range, and had picked out a spot on Big Turkey Creek, ten miles south
of the Strip line. It gradually passed from one to another of us what
Jack wanted. At first we felt blue about it, but Miller, who could
see farther than the rest of us, dispelled the gloom by announcing at
dinner, "Jack is going to take a claim if this outfit has a horse in
it and a man to ride him. It is only a question of a year or two at
the farthest until the rest of us will be guiding a white mule between
two corn rows, and glad of the chance. If Jack goes now, he will have
just that many years the start of the rest of us."

We nerved ourselves and tried to appear jolly after this talk of the
foreman. We entered into quite a discussion as to which horse would be
the best to make the ride with. The ranch had several specially good
saddle animals. In chasing gray wolves in the winter those qualities
of endurance which long races developed in hunting these enemies of
cattle, pointed out a certain coyote-colored horse, whose color marks
and "Dead Tree" brand indicated that he was of Spanish extraction.
Intelligently ridden with a light rider he was First Choice on which
to make this run. That was finally agreed to by all. There was no
trouble selecting the rider for this horse with the zebra marks. The
lightest weight was Billy Edwards. This qualification gave him the
preference over us all.

Jack described the spot he desired to claim by an old branding-pen
which had been built there when it had been part of the range. Billy
had ironed up many a calf in those same pens himself. "Well, Jack,"
said Billy, "if this outfit don't put you on the best quarter section
around that old corral, you'll know that they have throwed off on
you."

It was two weeks before the opening day. The coyote horse was given
special care from this time forward. He feasted on corn, while others
had to be content with grass. In spite of all the bravado that was
being thrown into these preparations, there was noticeable a deep
undercurrent of regret. Jack was going from us. Every one wanted him
to go, still these dissolving ties moved the simple men to acts of
boyish kindness. Each tried to outdo the others, in the matter of a
parting present to Jack. He could have robbed us then. It was as bad
as a funeral. Once before we felt similarly when one of the boys died
at camp. It was like an only sister leaving the family circle.

Miller seemed to enjoy the discomfiture of the rest of us. This
creedless old Christian had fine strata in his make-up. He and Jack
planned continually for the future. In fact they didn't live in the
present like the rest of us. Two days before the opening, we loaded
up a wagon with Jack's effects. Every man but the newly installed cook
went along. It was too early in the spring for work to commence. We
all dubbed Jack a boomer from this time forward. The horse so much
depended on was led behind the wagon.

On the border we found a motley crowd of people. Soldiers had gathered
them into camps along the line to prevent "sooners" from entering
before the appointed time. We stopped in a camp directly north of the
claim our little boomer wanted. One thing was certain, it would take a
better horse than ours to win the claim away from us. No sooner could
take it. That and other things were what all of us were going along
for.

The next day when the word was given that made the land public domain,
Billy was in line on the coyote. He held his place to the front with
the best of them. After the first few miles, the others followed the
valley of Turkey Creek, but he maintained his course like wild fowl,
skirting the timber which covered the first range of hills back from
the creek. Jack followed with the wagon, while the rest of us rode
leisurely, after the first mile or so. When we saw Edwards bear
straight ahead from the others, we argued that a sooner only could
beat us for the claim. If he tried to out-hold us, it would be six
to one, as we noticed the leaders closely when we slacked up. By not
following the valley, Billy would cut off two miles. Any man who could
ride twelve miles to the coyote's ten with Billy Edwards in the saddle
was welcome to the earth. That was the way we felt. We rode together,
expecting to make the claim three quarters of an hour behind our man.
When near enough to sight it, we could see Billy and another horseman
apparently protesting with one another. A loud yell from one of us
attracted our man's attention. He mounted his horse and rode out and
met us. "Well, fellows, it's the expected that's happened this time,"
said he. "Yes, there's a sooner on it, and he puts up a fine bluff of
having ridden from the line; but he's a liar by the watch, for there
isn't a wet hair on his horse, while the sweat was dripping from the
fetlocks of this one."

"If you are satisfied that he is a sooner," said Miller, "he has to
go."

"Well, he is a lying sooner," said Edwards.

We reined in our horses and held a short parley. After a brief
discussion of the situation, Miller said to us: "You boys go down to
him,--don't hurt him or get hurt, but make out that you're going to
hang him. Put plenty of reality into it, and I'll come in in time to
save him and give him a chance to run for his life."

We all rode down towards him, Miller bearing off towards the right of
the old corral,--rode out over the claim noticing the rich soil
thrown up by the mole-hills. When we came up to our sooner, all of us
dismounted. Edwards confronted him and said, "Do you contest my right
to this claim?"

"I certainly do," was the reply.

"Well, you won't do so long," said Edwards. Quick as a flash Mouse
prodded the cold steel muzzle of a six-shooter against his ear. As the
sooner turned his head and looked into Mouse's stern countenance, one
of the boys relieved him of an ugly gun and knife that dangled from
his belt. "Get on your horse," said Mouse, emphasizing his demand with
an oath, while the muzzle of a forty-five in his ear made the order
undebatable. Edwards took the horse by the bits and started for a
large black-jack tree which stood near by. Reaching it, Edwards said,
"Better use Coon's rope; it's manilla and stronger. Can any of you
boys tie a hangman's knot?" he inquired when the rope was handed him.

"Yes, let me," responded several.

"Which limb will be best?" inquired Mouse.

"Take this horse by the bits," said Edwards to one of the boys, "till
I look." He coiled the rope sailor fashion, and made an ineffectual
attempt to throw it over a large limb which hung out like a yard-arm,
but the small branches intervening defeated his throw. While he was
coiling the rope to make a second throw, some one said, "Mebby so he'd
like to pray."

"What! him pray?" said Edwards. "Any prayer that he might offer
couldn't get a hearing amongst men, let alone above, where liars are
forbidden."

"Try that other limb," said Coon to Edwards; "there's not so much
brush in the way; we want to get this job done sometime to-day." As
Edwards made a successful throw, he said, "Bring that horse directly
underneath." At this moment Miller dashed up and demanded, "What in
hell are you trying to do?"

"This sheep-thief of a sooner contests my right to this claim,"
snapped Edwards, "and he has played his last cards on this earth. Lead
that horse under here."

"Just one moment," said Miller. "I think I know this man--think
he worked for me once in New Mexico." The sooner looked at Miller
appealingly, his face blanched to whiteness. Miller took the bridle
reins out of the hands of the boy who was holding the horse, and
whispering something to the sooner said to us, "Are you all ready?"

"Just waiting on you," said Edwards. The sooner gathered up the reins.
Miller turned the horse halfway round as though he was going to lead
him under the tree, gave him a slap in the flank with his hand, and
the sooner, throwing the rowels of his spurs into the horse, shot
out from us like a startled deer. We called to him to halt, as half a
dozen six-shooters encouraged him to go by opening a fusillade on the
fleeing horseman, who only hit the high places while going. Nor did
we let up fogging him until we emptied our guns and he entered the
timber. There was plenty of zeal in this latter part, as the lead must
have zipped and cried near enough to give it reality. Our object was
to shoot as near as possible without hitting.

Other horsemen put in an appearance as we were unsaddling and
preparing to camp, for we had come to stay a week if necessary. In
about an hour Jack joined us, speechless as usual, his face wreathed
in smiles. The first step toward a home he could call his own had been
taken. We told him about the trouble we had had with the sooner, a
story which he seemed to question, until Miller confirmed it. We put
up a tent among the black-jacks, as the nights were cool, and were
soon at peace with all the world.

At supper that evening Edwards said: "When the old settlers hold their
reunions in the next generation, they'll say, 'Thirty years ago Uncle
Jack Martin settled over there on Big Turkey,' and point him out to
their children as one of the pioneer fathers."

No one found trouble in getting to sleep that night, and the next day
arts long forgotten by most of us were revived. Some plowed up the old
branding-pen for a garden. Others cut logs for a cabin. Every one
did two ordinary days' work. The getting of the logs together was the
hardest. We sawed and chopped and hewed for dear life. The first few
days Jack and one of the boys planted a fine big garden. On the fourth
day we gave up the tent, as the smoke curled upward from our own
chimney, in the way that it does in well-told stories. The last
night we spent with Jack was one long to be remembered. A bright fire
snapped and crackled in the ample fireplace. Every one told stories.
Several of the boys could sing "The Lone Star Cow-trail," while "Sam
Bass" and "Bonnie Black Bess" were given with a vim.

The next morning we were to leave for camp. One of the boys who would
work for us that summer, but whose name was not on the pay-roll until
the round-up, stayed with Jack. We all went home feeling fine,
and leaving Jack happy as a bird in his new possession. As we were
saddling up to leave, Miller said to Jack, "Now if you're any good,
you'll delude some girl to keep house for you 'twixt now and fall.
Remember what the Holy Book says about it being hard luck for man to
be alone. You notice all your boomer neighbors have wives. That's a
hint to you to do likewise."

We were on the point of mounting, when the coyote horse began to act
up in great shape. Some one said to Edwards, "Loosen your cinches!"
"Oh, it's nothing but the corn he's been eating and a few days' rest,"
said Miller. "He's just running a little bluff on Billy." As Edwards
went to put his foot in the stirrup a second time, the coyote reared
like a circus horse. "Now look here, colty," said Billy, speaking
to the horse, "my daddy rode with Old John Morgan, the Confederate
cavalry raider, and he'd be ashamed of any boy he ever raised that
couldn't ride a bad horse like you. You're plum foolish to act this
way. Do you think I'll walk and lead you home?" He led him out a few
rods from the others and mounted him without any trouble. "He just
wants to show Jack how it affects a cow-horse to graze a few days on a
boomer's claim,--that's all," said Edwards, when he joined us.

"Now, Jack," said Miller, as a final parting, "if you want a cow, I'll
send one down, or if you need anything, let us know and we'll come
a-running. It's a bad example you've set us to go booming this way,
but we want to make a howling success out of you, so we can visit
you next winter. And mind what I told you about getting married," he
called back as he rode away.

We reached camp by late noon. Miller kept up his talk about what a
fine move Jack had made; said that we must get him a stray beef for
his next winter's meat; kept figuring constantly what else he could do
for Jack. "You come around in a few years and you'll find him as cosy
as a coon, and better off than any of us," said Miller, when we were
talking about his farming. "I've slept under wet blankets with him,
and watched him kindle a fire in the snow, too often not to know what
he's made of. There's good stuff in that little rascal."

About the ranch it seemed lonesome without Jack. It was like coming
home from school when we were kids and finding mother gone to the
neighbor's. We always liked to find her at home. We busied ourselves
repairing fences, putting in flood-gates on the river, doing anything
to keep away from camp. Miller himself went back to see Jack within
ten days, remaining a week. None of us stayed at the home ranch any
more than we could help. We visited other camps on hatched excuses,
until the home round-ups began. When any one else asked us about Jack,
we would blow about what a fine claim he had, and what a boost we
had given him. When we buckled down to the summer's work the gloom
gradually left us. There were men to be sent on the eastern, western,
and middle divisions of the general round-up of the Strip. Two men
were sent south into the Cheyenne country to catch anything that had
winter-drifted. Our range lay in the middle division. Miller and one
man looked after it on the general round-up.

It was a busy year with us. Our range was full stocked, and by early
fall was rich with fat cattle. We lived with the wagon after the
shipping season commenced. Then we missed Jack, although the new cook
did the best he knew how. Train after train went out of our pasture,
yet the cattle were never missed. We never went to camp now; only the
wagon went in after supplies, though we often came within sight of the
stabling and corrals in our work.

One day, late in the season, we were getting out a train load of "Barb
Wire" cattle, when who should come toddling along on a plow nag but
Jack himself. Busy as we were, he held quite a levee, though he didn't
give down much news, nor have anything to say about himself or the
crops. That night at camp, while the rest of us were arranging the
guards for the night, Miller and Jack prowled off in an opposite
direction from the beef herd, possibly half a mile, and afoot, too. We
could all see that something was working. Some trouble was bothering
Jack, and he had come to a friend in need, so we thought. They did not
come back to camp until the moon was up and the second guard had gone
out to relieve the first. When they came back not a word was spoken.
They unrolled Miller's bed and slept together.

The next morning as Jack was leaving us to return to his claim, we
overheard him say to Miller, "I'll write you." As he faded from
our sight, Miller smiled to himself, as though he was tickled about
something. Finally Billy Edwards brought things to a head by asking
bluntly, "What's up with Jack? We want to know."

"Oh, it's too good," said Miller. "If that little game-legged rooster
hasn't gone and deluded some girl back in the State into marrying him,
I'm a horse-thief. You fellows are all in the play, too. Came here
special to see when we could best get away. Wants every one of us to
come. He's built another end to his house, double log style, floored
both rooms and the middle. Says he will have two fiddlers, and
promises us the hog killingest time of our lives. I've accepted the
invitation on behalf of the 'J+H's' without consulting any one."

"But supposing we are busy when it takes place," said Mouse, "then
what?"

"But we won't be," answered Miller. "It isn't every day that we have
a chance at a wedding in our little family, and when we get the word,
this outfit quits then and there. Ordinary callings in life, like
cattle matters, must go to the rear until important things are
attended to. Every man is expected to don his best togs, and dance to
the centre on the word. If it takes a week to turn the trick properly,
good enough. Jack and his bride must have a blow-out right. This
outfit must do themselves proud. It will be our night to howl, and
every man will be a wooly wolf."

We loaded the beeves out the next day, going back after two trains of
"Turkey Track" cattle. While we were getting these out, Miller cut out
two strays and a cow or two, and sent them to the horse pasture at the
home camp. It was getting late in the fall, and we figured that a few
more shipments would end it. Miller told the owners to load out what
they wanted while the weather was fit, as our saddle horses were
getting worn out fast. As we were loading out the last shipment of
mixed cattle of our own, the letter came to Miller. Jack would return
with his bride on a date only two days off, and the festivities were
set for one day later. We pulled into headquarters that night, the
first time in six weeks, and turned everything loose. The next morning
we overhauled our Sunday bests, and worried around trying to pick out
something for a wedding present.

Miller gave the happy pair a little "Flower Pot" cow, which he had
rustled in the Cheyenne country on the round-up a few years before.
Edwards presented him with a log chain that a bone-picker had lost in
our pasture. Mouse gave Jack a four-tined fork which the hay outfit
had forgotten when they left. Coon Floyd's compliments went with five
cow-bells, which we always thought he rustled from a boomer's wagon
that broke down over on the Reno trail. It bothered some of us to
rustle something for a present, for you know we couldn't buy anything.
We managed to get some deer's antlers, a gray wolf's skin for the
bride's tootsies, and several colored sheepskins, which we had bought
from a Mexican horse herd going up the trail that spring. We killed
a nice fat little beef, the evening before we started, hanging it out
over night to harden. None of the boys knew the brand; in fact, it's
bad taste to remember the brand on anything you've beefed. No one
troubles himself to notice it carefully. That night a messenger
brought a letter to Miller, ordering him to ship out the remnant
of "Diamond Tail" cattle as soon as possible. They belonged to a
northwest Texas outfit, and we were maturing them. The messenger
stayed all night, and in the morning asked, "Shall I order cars for
you?"

"No, I have a few other things to attend to first," answered Miller.

We took the wagon with us to carry our bedding and the other plunder,
driving along with us a cow and a calf of Jack's, the little "Flower
Pot" cow, and a beef. Our outfit reached Jack's house by the middle of
the afternoon. The first thing was to be introduced to the bride. Jack
did the honors himself, presenting each one of us, and seemed just as
proud as a little boy with new boots. Then we were given introductions
to several good-looking neighbor girls. We began to feel our own
inferiority.

While we were hanging up the quarters of beef on some pegs on the
north side of the cabin, Edwards said, whispering, "Jack must have
pictured this claim mighty hifalutin to that gal, for she's a way up
good-looker. Another thing, watch me build to the one inside with the
black eyes. I claimed her first, remember. As soon as we get this beef
hung up I'm going in and sidle up to her."

"We won't differ with you on that point," remarked Mouse, "but if she
takes any special shine to a runt like you, when there's boys like the
rest of us standing around, all I've got to say is, her tastes must be
a heap sight sorry and depraved. I expect to dance with the bride--in
the head set--a whirl or two myself."

"If I'd only thought," chimed in Coon, "I'd sent up to the State and
got me a white shirt and a standing collar and a red necktie. You
galoots out-hold me on togs. But where I was raised, back down in Palo
Pinto County, Texas, I was some punkins as a ladies' man myself--you
hear me."

"Oh, you look all right," said Edwards. "You would look all right with
only a cotton string around your neck."

After tending to our horses, we all went into the house. There sat
Miller talking to the bride just as if he had known her always, with
Jack standing with his back to the fire, grinning like a cat eating
paste. The neighbor girls fell to getting supper, and our cook turned
to and helped. We managed to get fairly well acquainted with the
company by the time the meal was over. The fiddlers came early, in
fact, dined with us. Jack said if there were enough girls, we could
run three sets, and he thought there would be, as he had asked every
one both sides of the creek for five miles. The beds were taken down
and stowed away, as there would be no use for them that night.

The company came early. Most of the young fellows brought their best
girls seated behind them on saddle horses. This manner gave the girl a
chance to show her trustful, clinging nature. A horse that would carry
double was a prize animal. In settling up a new country, primitive
methods crop out as a matter of necessity.

Ben Thorn, an old-timer in the Strip, called off. While the company
was gathering, the fiddlers began to tune up, which sent a thrill
through us. When Ben gave the word, "Secure your pardners for the
first quadrille," Miller led out the bride to the first position in
the best room, Jack's short leg barring him as a participant. This was
the signal for the rest of us, and we fell in promptly. The fiddles
struck up "Hounds in the Woods," the prompter's voice rang out "Honors
to your pardner," and the dance was on.

Edwards close-herded the black-eyed girl till supper time. Not a one
of us got a dance with her even. Mouse admitted next day, as we rode
home, that he squeezed her hand several times in the grand right and
left, just to show her that she had other admirers, that she needn't
throw herself away on any one fellow, but it was no go. After supper
Billy corralled her in a corner, she seeming willing, and stuck to her
until her brother took her home nigh daylight.

Jack got us boys pardners for every dance. He proved himself clean
strain that night, the whitest little Injun on the reservation. We
knocked off dancing about midnight and had supper,--good coffee with
no end of way-up fine chuck. We ate as we danced, heartily. Supper
over, the dance went on full blast. About two o'clock in the morning,
the wire edge was well worn off the revelers, and they showed signs of
weariness. Miller, noticing it, ordered the Indian war-dance as
given by the Cheyennes. That aroused every one and filled the sets
instantly. The fiddlers caught the inspiration and struck into "Sift
the Meal and save the Bran." In every grand right and left, we ki-yied
as we had witnessed Lo in the dance on festive occasions. At the end
of every change, we gave a war-whoop, some of the girls joining in,
that would have put to shame any son of the Cheyennes.

It was daybreak when the dance ended and the guests departed. Though
we had brought our blankets with us, no one thought of sleeping. Our
cook and one of the girls got breakfast. The bride offered to help,
but we wouldn't let her turn her hand. At breakfast we discussed the
incidents of the night previous, and we all felt that we had done the
occasion justice.